remained silent for a moment, thinking. He pondered how he could arouse this inert body that seemed to be under the influence of some drug. His decision to marry was stronger than ever. If only to prove his authority, he had resolved to finish what in the beginning, perhaps, was only the whim of a senile old man. Rafik’s inexcusable behavior had aggravated his desire for domination. He didn’t want to admit defeat to the audacity of that vicious and destructive boy. He had imagined he could persuade Galal to reason with Rafik. In reality old Hafez, afraid of Rafik’s outbursts, was repelled at the idea of finding himself in direct contact with him. The memory of last night’s scene still smarted too much for him to have forgotten it. His health had been weakened by the excitement, and as for his hernia, it had swollen again.
He looked at Galal in despair, heaved a sigh and said:
“Galal, my son, wake up. You are the eldest; I count on you to establish order in this house.”
Galal, contrary to all expectations, raised his head and seemed to wake up. He had just been bitten by a singularly active flea.
“What’s that? What did you say?”
“I said that you’re the eldest,” repeated old Hafez. “It’s your responsibility to reason with your brothers.”
“What have my brothers done?”
“By Allah! Don’t you know what went on yesterday?”
“No. How should I know?”
“Well, your brother Rafik acted like a gangster! He nearly killed Haga Zohra.”
“Good for him,” said Galal.
“What?” cried old Hafez. “You approve!”
“It’s a crime,” said Uncle Mustapha.
Uncle Mustapha was sitting in the rocking chair; he shook his head gravely to signify his distress and, from time to time, sighed with despair.
“It’s insane,” he said again.
Galal didn’t answer. He didn’t want to commit himself or begin any interminable discussions. He was already thinking of getting back to bed.
“Galal, my son,” old Hafez began, “I beg of you, wake up for a moment and listen to me.”
“Well,” said Galal. “What is it you want?”
“I want you to talk to your brother Rafik. Tell him for me that if he doesn’t stop his criminal behavior he’ll repent it. I’ll teach him who’s master here.”
Galal remained insensitive to these threatening words. His father’s noisy revival of a show of authority seemed perfectly absurd to him. However, he thought it wise to appear conciliatory. It seemed the best way to get this scene over with.
“All right, Father. Calm yourself. I’ll speak to him one of these days.”
“What do you mean — one of these days? I want you to talk to him today.”
“Really,” begged Galal. “Can’t you wail at least until tomorrow?”
Old Hafez sighed with exhaustion. He had begun to realize the futility of the conversation.
“All right,” he said. “You can speak to him tomorrow.”
Meanwhile, Serag was rummaging in the room off the terrace. He had thought a great deal in the last few days. His unsuccessful attempt to flee his father’s house had put him in an inferior position with his family. Even Uncle Mustapha spoke to him with a certain condescension, as though he were not quite well. He felt like a child who is not allowed out of the house. No one took his desire to work seriously. This attitude offended his rather juvenile nature and was a constant source of torture. He had resolved to show them he was capable of following his plans through, even if he had to suffer poverty and hunger to attain his independence.
Serag now understood that he couldn’t leave the house with any chance of success unless he provided himself with a little money. To get it, he had decided to sell some of his school books, and some of his brothers’ as well, to Abou Zeid, the peanut vendor. This would bring him a bit of cash. Certainly, he didn’t expect a great sum, but the little he would get would help him to live during the first days of his independence, until he could find some work. Abou Zeid, no doubt, would buy his books. In this way he could enlarge his miserable business and, at the same time, become a bookseller, an unknown thing in the quarter. Serag couldn’t get over his marvelous idea. Abou Zeid would be the first bookseller in the quarter. That would raise him in the esteem of honest people.
The terrace room was a dusty little shed, lighted by a skylight, heaped pell-mell with all sorts of kitchen utensils, bits of furniture and discarded objects. Serag knew the books he wanted had been put away in a suitcase. He found it hidden in a corner under a pile of empty bottles and damaged water pipes. He managed to free it, cleared it of some of the dust that covered it, and opened it.
He was moved at this memory of his life as a student and the distant past of his school days. These books represented a magnificent period for him. Then the future had seemed smiling and full of hope. The house had not yet become what it now was: an inviolable retreat of sleep.
He picked up a book and began to leaf through it.
“What are you doing here?”
Serag dropped the book and turned around.
“It’s none of your business, girl!”
“I’ve been looking for you for half an hour,” said Hoda. “Lunch is ready.”
She came up to him slowly, happy to have found him. He recoiled; he feared this little girl more than anything in the world. Her fatal tenderness was an abyss for him, into which he fell each time with despair. This girl, with her obstinate love and her naïve perversity always weakened his instincts for revolt. It was as though with him she was transformed, leaving childhood, to become a wheedling and cynical woman.
“Why are you handling those books?” she asked. “What are you starting now? When are you going to be sensible?”
“Leave me alone. I’m old enough to do what I want.”
“You’re only a child.”
“Ah! I’ll show you if I’m a child,” said Serag. “You see these books? I’m going to sell them.”
“Sell them! What for?”
“To get some money, girl!”
“What are you going to do with the money?”
“With money I can get out of this house,” said Serag. “Now do you understand?”
“So that’s what it’s for,” she said. “Cursed boy! So you’re beginning this madness all over again.”
“I’ve decided to go away,” said Serag. “But this time I’m really serious. With the money from these books I’ll be able to get along until I find some work.”
“Then you’re really going.”
She had tears in her eyes. She had thought he had given up his childish ideas of adventure, and now, again, he was thinking of nothing but running away and roving around the country. She realized how much his obsession blinded him. But what could she do? The only chance of keeping him near her was to leave with him.
“Take me with you,” she said.
“I’ve already told you it’s impossible,” said Serag.
Hoda wiped her tears and became her most seductive; she smiled at the young man, offering him her lips. But Serag turned away. Then Hoda closed the suitcase, sat down on it, and caught Serag’s hand, drawing him to her.
“Come sit by me.”
Serag sank down beside her; he was already helpless, hypnotized. He was never able to resist the perverse attraction that came from her young body.
“You don’t want to take me then?”
“No,” said Serag. “What would I do with you?”
“I’d keep house for you.”
“I’d rather go alone. I don’t need a woman.”
“You’ll be afraid alone. I’ll take care of you.”
“Why should I be afraid? Work doesn’t frighten me.”
“How do you know? You’ve never worked yet. It’s hard to be alone. Don’t you believe that?”
“I don’t know,” said Serag. “Anyhow, anything is better than staying in this house.”
She leaned against him, putting her mouth close
to his ear.
“Take me with you,” she pleaded. “Don’t leave me. I’ll kill myself.”
In reality, Serag was beginning to be aware of his fear of leaving for the city alone. The idea of taking Hoda with him no longer seemed so absurd. Actually, the young girl would be a useful companion, and her presence would make the hardships of his new life less painful to bear. Still, he hesitated.
She watched him pondering, her heart pounding. She stroked his cheek, then kissed his mouth.
“Take me.”
“I don’t know yet,” said Serag. “Perhaps I’ll leave with you. We’ll see. First I have to sell these books.”
“Oh, I love you,” said Hoda. “Kiss me quickly! My master is waiting for his lunch.”
In the afternoon, Serag took the books to Abou Zeid. The peanut vendor was squatting outside his shop in his usual position, warming himself in the sun; he was apparently applying himself to certain putrefaction. His gaunt and hairy face was stamped with an ageless torpor. The baskets standing near him were almost empty.
“Good day, Abou Zeid!”
“Good day, my young gentleman!” replied Abou Zeid. “What have you there?”
“Books,” said Serag. “I’ve come with a wonderful idea for your business.”
Abou Zeid looked benevolently at the young man, and at the same time, with real apprehension. Above all, he feared being upset, and the rude efforts that characterize certain occupations saddened his charitable soul. He asked timidly:
“What’s your plan, my boy? I hope it’s honorable.”
“It’s an inspiration,” said Serag. “First let me put my books down. I’ve carried them from the house.”
He put the books on the ground, stuck his hands in his pockets, looked at Abou Zeid and smiled. Abou Zeid gave the books a quick glance, but didn’t dare touch them. He didn’t yet suspect the role these books were to play in the project the young man wanted to submit to him.
“Explain,” he said. “I’m waiting for your good words.”
“Very well! Here it is. You’re going to buy these books and become a bookseller.”
“A bookseller!” said Abou Zeid. “I’m too old, my boy. I don’t think the work would suit me.”
“But it’s wonderful work,” said Serag. “You’ll be the first bookseller in the quarter. Do you realize what an honor that is?”
“Ah! You think so?”
Abou Zeid was a little overwhelmed by this proposition; it was far beyond his poor hopes. He had never been so ambitious. All he wanted was to escape his odious mother-in-law’s sarcasms. The crabbed woman continued to torment him about his miserable trade. What would she say when she saw him installed as a bookseller? The question worried him considerably.
“You’re sure it’s suitable work?”
“Certainly,” replied Serag. “What makes you ask?”
“I don’t know, my boy! What are these books about?”
“They’re school books. Very serious books. You don’t suppose, Abou Zeid, my father, that I’d sell you obscene books?”
“That’s not what I meant. Excuse me, my boy.”
He became silent and again seemed to be reflecting. Serag stood waiting the result of these laborious efforts, their true motive hidden from him. He didn’t understand the merchant’s reticence and began to feel tired. Suddenly, he saw Mimi appear in the sunlight, his hair disordered, looking as though he hadn’t slept all night. Serag smiled at him, but Mimi bowed distantly and walked on, his hands in his pockets. Strange, his dog wasn’t with him. Serag wondered why Mimi had greeted him so coldly, and what had happened to his dog, Semsen. Then he forgot the young man, and gave all his attention to Abou Zeid, whose inner debate seemed to be coming to an end.
At that moment, a young girl with long braids and mascara on her eyelashes stopped in front of the shop. Abou Zeid asked her hostilely:
“What do you want, girl!”
“It’s for Om Ehsane.”
“What does she want?”
“Two cents’ worth of chickpeas,” said the child. “She’ll pay you tomorrow.”
“Help yourself, girl! And leave me in peace!”
The little girl took the peas, then went off, swinging her thin hips. A few yards away she turned and smiled at Serag.
“What a business!” sighed Abou Zeid.
“Well, have you decided?” asked Serag.
“All right,” said Abou Zeid. “How much do you want for the books?”
“Give me what you like,” said Serag.
Abou Zeid thrust his hand under his robe, and drew out his dirty purse. He began counting the money. Serag already felt dizzy from his adventure.
XVI
It was almost noon when the child turned off the street into the alley. In the first house on his left he saw, bent over the window sill, a servant dusting a rug and he asked her the way. The servant pointed to the spot he was looking for and the child thanked her, then ran leaping on. It was at least the tenth person he had asked for Serag’s address.
When he arrived in front of the young man’s house, the child began to call, peering through the gate.
“Serag!”
No one answered him. Then, he stepped hack, made a little horn with his hands cupped around his mouth and again called with all his might.
After a moment, Serag opened the window of the dining room and looked into the alley. Suddenly he recognized little Antar, the child he had met two months ago in the fields, hunting birds with a slingshot. He was dressed for summer, that is, he was naked or almost naked. A sort of loincloth made of some filthy stuff covered his sex. His shaven head was now decorated with short thick hair. He hadn’t changed much; only the look in his wild eyes testified to a deeper suffering.
“Wait a minute,” Serag called, “I’m coming.”
He left the house quickly and found the child, who was already amusing himself by throwing rocks in the windows of the neighboring houses.
“Stop that! You’ll hurt someone!”
“Oh! I was only having some fun,” the child said.
Serag put his arm around the boy’s shoulders, and they started walking along the side of the road. The sun shot down its implacable rays everywhere; a torrid heat hung over all the countryside and over the length of the dusty roads. Serag and the child took refuge in the shade of a tree.
“I’m glad to see you again,” said Serag. “How are you?”
“Bad,” answered the child.
“You don’t hunt birds anymore?”
“No. I sold my slingshot.”
“Then what do you do now?”
“I’m unemployed,” the child said.
He blew his nose and wiped it with his fingers, then turned his head away and was silent.
Serag was saddened to see his young friend reduced to this painful extremity; he didn’t know how to show his sympathy. After a while, he asked:
“And your box, have you found your box?”
“No,” said the child. “I haven’t found it.”
“You haven’t seen the boy again who stole it from you?”
“He’s dead,” said the child a little bitterly.
“How do you know?”
“I just do! He’s dead I tell you.”
Pressed by the greatest need, young Antar had come to see Serag. His diverse pursuits in the field of vagabondage were no longer very brilliantly successful. His luck was giving out; he was reduced to idle begging. In his misfortune he had thought of Serag and told himself that perhaps he could visit the unfinished factory with him. He had no doubt he would collect a few milliemes for his trouble.
He attempted a disinterested air:
“You don’t want to go see the factory?”
“No,” said Serag. “I don’t think about the factory anymore. Besides, it’s always the same. No one dreams of finishing it. It’s a ruin.”
“Then you don’t want to work any longer?”
“Oh, yes!” said Serag. “Only I’ve deci
ded to go look for work in the city. You did well to come today. I’ll need you.”
Serag had fixed his departure from the house for that evening, after dinner. He had in his pocket the ten piastres Abou Zeid had paid him for the books, and he had no doubt of the success of his escape. The appearance of the child was an unexpected stroke of luck; above all he must not lose him as before. In that unknown maelstrom of the great city, the child would be a much-needed guide. He possessed useful resources; he would help him in his search for work.
“You know the city well?” he asked.
“There’s nobody anywhere who knows the city as well as I do,” the child answered. “I know the smallest alleys and all their beggars.”
“That’s fine,” said Serag. “I’m sure you’ll be able to help me find some work.”
“What kind of work?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“I advise you not to look for it,” said the child.
“Why not?” asked Serag.
“Because you might find it.”
“Well?”
“Well, that would be terrible for you.”
“Not at all,” said Serag. “Listen. Right now I’ve got a little money. And I plan to leave tonight for the city. Do you think you can meet me there?”
“Where? It’s a big city you know!”
“Wherever you like. You choose the place.”
The child scratched his head and thought a minute.
“I’ll wait for you under the statue of the Renaissance,” he said. “Do you know where it is?”
“Yes,” Serag answered. “I remember. It’s near the railway station.”
“Right. I’ll wait for you there, tonight, around nine o’clock.”
“Agreed,” Serag said. “Goodbye!”
“Aren’t you going to give me anything for my trouble?” asked the child.
“Excuse me,” Serag said. “I forgot.”
“I’ll get things ready,” the child said. “If only I didn’t have any debts!”
Serag went back to the house, his heart filled with joy and pride. He was sure he represented a new kind of man — the man of the future — and he was already smiling at the thought of the victories he would score against the abject world of the idle.
Laziness in the Fertile Valley Page 14
